


A Renaissance Man

by ElectraRhodes



Series: Delighting in Your Radiance 2017 [7]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Case Fic, Crossover, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, art heist, the Thomas Crown Affair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 05:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12499720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/pseuds/ElectraRhodes
Summary: Hannibal Lecter is bored. So very, very bored. In an attempt to alleviate the boredom he plans a diversion; steal the Metropolitan Museum of Art's copy of La Primavera. What he doesn't reckon on is the curly haired, glasses wearing, art nerd, called in by the insurers to find the painting. And with the FBI's Art Squad waiting in the wings? Just who will get their man?In other words? Hannigram meets the Thomas Crown Affair.





	A Renaissance Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladydey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydey/gifts).



> The seventh of fifteen (omgg) new stories for those wonderful people who backed the Radiance Kickstarter 'Delight' Level. Thank you!! The stories are all linked, so if you fancy it you can subscribe to the whole series and as each one posts they'll just turn up in your in-box! Easy. 
> 
> There's a range of styles (fluff, humour, horror, fantasy, and trope), seasons (1,2,3 and post TWOTL, and SOTL too), canon compliant, crossover and AU (can we say coffee shop?), favourites (souls marks, ABO), and lots of wonderful characters (at least two Wendigos). 
> 
> Each backer bid for a minimum of 1000 words of fic. Of course the prompts are just too good to only give them 1000 words. Bring the noise! This one has maybe five chapters.
> 
> Based off a wonderful prompt from ladydey... wonderful job my friend. Just brilliant. I hope I do it justice.

Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier settles into her chair more comfortably. She crosses her legs and smoothes her skirt down over her knees. She smiles very slightly at the man sitting across from her,

“Hannibal? I want you to consider your attitude towards relationships, of an intimate nature.”

She pauses and cocks her head a little to one side,

“Hannibal?”

His eyes focus on her and he seems to return from a long way away.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Relationships. Friendships. Women. Men. You have yet to talk about them.”

“I enjoy women, and, men. As the occasion arises.”

She considers,

“Hannibal, we both know, enjoyment isn’t intimacy.”

He raises his eyebrows very slightly and gives her something of a sardonic look,

“Intimacy isn’t necessarily enjoyment either.”

She nods a small indication of acquiescence but adds,

“How would you know? Hannibal? We both know that some of this is an issue of trust. Do you trust?”

“When you say ‘do’, I hear you say ‘can’.”

She shrugs, so he sighs,

“I trust myself implicitly.”

“Of course. But can other people trust you?”

“Do you mean society at large?”

She sighs again, wondering, and not for the first time if he is being deliberately obtuse or at least, obscure.

“I mean in relationships Hannibal. Women. Men. Friendship. Love. ”

He pauses, as though tasting the words in his mouth before he commits himself,

“Yes. A woman or man could trust me. In a relationship.”

She uncrosses and then re-crosses her legs.

“Good. And under what extraordinary circumstances would you allow that to happen?”

He smiles at her, and she is very slightly unnerved by it,

“Someone could trust me... as long as their interests didn’t run too contrary to my own. In wider society? If its interests ran counter to my own?”

He doesn’t finish the thought and when she glances at her watch she’s relieved that the hour is up. She stands up from her chair and walks towards a sideboard bearing glasses and several bottles of wine.

“And that’s all for this week. Think about it Hannibal. Do something unexpected, without considering your own interests, surprise yourself even.” She pauses, “A glass of something then?”

He smiles again, possibly with a hint of amusement,

“Pink? Don’t you think?”

.....................................................................

When Hannibal Lecter leaves his therapist’s home he shrugs on his coat but leaves it unbuttoned. The weather is warming up even at this early hour and the sky is a crisp blue promising sunshine later, but the car has AC. His driver is ready and opens the door,

“Dr Lecter. Straight to the office Sir?”

He smiles and slips into the car. In the back seat he opens his briefcase and looks over some papers. The journey to New York always takes a while but it gives him time to consider various matters. In the front Jimmy has turned the radio to something quiet and interesting. Hannibal closes his eyes and rests his head against the headrest. The Bentley is comfortable and spacious and was a smart purchase even if it is heavy on the gas, and Jimmy says it drives like a dream.

Close into the city the traffic thickens and Hannibal opens his eyes again as the car slows. He taps on the back of jimmy’s seat,

“Jimmy? I think I’ll walk for a while. I’ll see you at the office later. I think at 6.”

“Wanna leave the briefcase? I can take it in for you Sir?”

Hannibal just shakes his head, and Jimmy draws into the side of the road. Hannibal opens his door and gets out. He circles round the back of the car and looks up. Ahh yes. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. He finds he can’t resist its lure. As he steps out into the road a small truck screeches to a halt just in front of him, the driver swears colourfully,

“Whoa!!! Jesus Fucking Christ!! Look at this jerk.”

Hannibal looks at him, makes a mental note of the name of the company on the side of the truck and smiles a secret little smile. He steps back off the road and waves the truck onwards.

He crosses the road more carefully. Looking both ways. Inside the Gallery, he knows exactly where he is going. The docent smiles at him,

“Hey, Dr Lecter? Back for your Raphael? Huh?”

Hannibal smiles at him as he settles on a low leather clad padded bench in front of the beautiful Renaissance painting.

“Don’t ever let it go on tour Brian.”

Brian smiles again, 

“You are an odd duck Sir. Everybody else goes right for the Botticelli.”

Hannibal swivels on the bench and glances at Botticelli’s copy of his own painting ‘La Primavera’, smaller than the other version in the Uffizi, there’s some debate about which came first, he looks back at Brian,

“I’m sure. It’s very nice.”

He says it as though there is a faintly unpleasant taste in his mouth.

“Nice! Sir! Do you know what it’s worth?”

Hannibal shrugs and looks back at the Raphael,

“I just like my suffering saint.”

......................................................................

At the back of the Gallery the truck that narrowly avoided Hannibal Lecter as he crossed the road draws up at the deliveries entrance. 

The driver of the truck gets out and checks his manifest, the docent monitoring the door comes over, and the driver glares at him,

“Yo! You gonna get a move on. I’m on the clock here.”

The docent glares back at him, he takes the manifest and looks it over,

“Something’s screwed up here. My list says some kind of sarcophagus.”

The driver takes his manifest back and then looks at the docent’s list.

“Fuck. I don’t know. It’s a horse. What can I say? You want I should take it back and maybe dump it?”

The docent rolls his eyes,

“Just get it unloaded.”

.....................................................................

Hannibal crosses the road in front of a large glossy building bearing his name. The design for the building won some kind of prestigious architectural award when it first went up, Hannibal simply wishes the elevators were better. He waits at a door, and just like everyone else, he eavesdrops on the conversations around him,

“I say he’s a shit. I mean. He’s gotta be, hasn’t he? All this? And the looks? And everything else besides.”

Hannibal coughs. And the guy turns on him,

“What? Can’t even speak out of turn in his building?”

The man beside him puts a hand on his arm,

“Actually this is the guy who owns the building.”

He pulls his friend away muttering apologies and irritations. Hannibal looks after them but turns away when the elevator pings. 

He gets out on the fifteenth floor, and heads into a large suite of open plan offices, the huge plate glass windows giving an exceptional view of Central Park. As he crosses the room he’s greeted by people left and right,

“Good morning Dr Lecter.”

“John.”

“Good morning Sir.”

“Hello, good morning.”

“Good morning Dr Lecter. You’ve forgotten your briefcase again, right?”

Hannibal smiles at his secretary as he makes for his corner office,

“Good morning Alana, I must have left it here last night.”

She smiles. He does this sometimes. Just loses track of things. Too many things on his mind, and no one really to look after him. She follows her boss into his office, note pad at the ready.

..................................................................

In the basement of the Gallery the docent sighs as two porters push the huge crated horse, sarcophagus, whatever it is down a corridor.

The docent in charge of the collection looks at the packing label, looks at his colleague’s list, and then looks at his three colleagues,

“We have a disparity here. For sure.”

The receiving docent sighs,

“For sure? Yeah. I saw that.”

“Let’s find out what we’ve actually got. See just how bad the problem really is.”

He gestures to the two porters,

“Come on, get it open.”

The two men use crow bars on the front of the wooden box and ease it off, the nails pinging loose. Inside is an enormous sculpted horse.

“That..” says the first docent, “is definitely not a sarcophagus.”

The second docent looks at him and then at the two porters,

“I’ll tell you what it is. It’s Friday.”

He walks away leaving the other three men behind, one of the porters asks,

“What did he mean by that.”

The docent sighs,

“I’d say that what it means is that by Monday there is going to be absolute hell to pay.”

.............................................................................

In the board room adjacent to his office a small group of business men high five each other,

“Damn! The number of times I thought... I never thought I’d see that! Hannibal Lecter forced to sell something.”

One of the man's colleagues turns to Hannibal,

“So what do you think? Any regrets about the way you played this at all?”

Hannibal smiles a little, just around the eyes,

“Regret is usually a waste of time.”

He smiles a little broader,

“As is gloating. Have you considered what you might tell your own board when they learn that you paid me $100 million more than the others were offering? Good morning gentlemen.”

He stands, nods to the assembled group, their bubble burst and smirks a little as he leaves the room. So many ways to eat the rude.

..................................................................

In the basement of the Gallery the beautiful Etruscan horse shudders. Then a huge chunk of plaster falls to the floor of the crate and carefully, carefully a foot descends, then another, from somewhere inside. Soon, three men are standing beside the partially demolished replica. The oldest of the three looks at the two others,

“All right. Good. We speak only English now.”

They make their way out of the storage room.

.......................................................................

Hannibal spends his afternoon in and out of meetings. Success breeds success. And he is one of the most successful men in Manhattan. He has a midas touch. Mergers. Acquisitions. Sales. After medical school what had begun as dabbling in his father’s affairs has become a life-long passion for the financial arts, and so far, no one has died from his fiscal policy.

.......................................................................

In the Gallery a teaching assistant looks over a group of small children gathered in one of the rooms housing renaissance paintings.

“This painting is considered to be one of the most important pictures of the high renaissance. It consolidated Botticelli as a master artist, and went on to influence other major artists around the world for all of ...”

She trails off and they all look between her and the picture,

“Ok, kids, try this, it’s worth about 300 million bucks.”

She can’t help but smile at all the ooohs and aahhhs and grins at the docent in charge of the room, he winks back at her. Even kids understand about the money.

...........................................................................

In Hannibal’s office he exchanges a few words with an assistant,

“The Government staffer who said he could work the deal with State? He’s back?”

“Sir. Yes. He says..”

Hannibal holds a hand up,

“He lied. He’s lied a second time. He’s done.”

The assistant opens his mouth to say something and then closes it with a snap.

“Sir.”

...............................................................................

The docent in the Renaissance room smiles at one of the children,

“Now then young lady. Don’t touch. I’ll let you go this time. On your way.”

She grins back mischievously and heads back to her class mates.

In one of the basements the security team who monitor the CCTV of the whole Gallery are sitting and paying scant attention to the monitors. The system guarding the world class collection is state of the art. Everyone says so. And it’s recently been updated to include new heat sensitive monitors in some of the rooms with the most precious works. Never the less one of them yawns,

"Randall? Would you take a look in the compressor room? There’s something wonky with the AC?”

Randall looks up from the magazine he is reading, some natural history journal, and whines,

“Can’t we pass it on to engineering?”

Tobias shrugs,

“Sorry man, but the book says we check it first.”

Randall heaves a put upon sigh and stands,

“All right. Sure. Of course it would be one of the hottest days of the year. Can you believe it’s nearly October?”

Randall and Franklyn walk through the maze of empty basement corridors exchanging their usual gripes, the ex, the kids, the job, the heat, everything really. Shit. Randall eases a finger around inside his collar, inside the air-conditioning plant room they gaze around at the still fans and machinery,

“Damn! I think the whole air-conditioning plant’s crapped out.”

Franklyn looks around him,

“Why didn’t they call maintenance? I don’t get it?”

They don’t see the man hiding in the shadow of the open door.

....................................................................

Hannibal walks out of his office, coat over his arm and briefcase in hand,

“I’ll see you in the morning Alana. Have a pleasant evening.”

She smiles up at him as he passes her desk,

“Found your briefcase, I see.”

He looks at it down in his hand and smiles at her,

“Evidently.”

“Goodnight Dr Lecter.”

At the elevator door someone waits on him and holds it open, he smiles at them. Once outdoors he finds himself once again headed towards the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It’s become something of a ritual for him, a way to bookend the day, morning and evening, surrounded by beauty and all that golden glory.

........................................................................

In the Renaissance Wing one of the men from the Horse pulls on a docent’s jacket. He hands one to his colleague and they nod to each other. The man in the lead walks towards the docent on duty at the door,

“Hey. How you doing? They want to talk to you upstairs.”

The docent points to himself,

“Me? Or the regular guy? Because Zeller will be back in a couple of seconds. I think you should talk to him.”

The Horse guy smiles a little, baring his teeth,

“Call them if you like.”

The temporary docent nods and heads towards the internal communication telephone in the corner of the room, he picks it up and dials, the call is intercepted by the third Horse man still in the basement.

“This is administration. Hello?”

“Hey. This is Roland in wing eight. I was told you wanted to speak to me? I’ll be right up?”

He puts the phone down and shrugs at the two Horse men.

“They want to see me.”

As he leaves the two Horse men spring into action moving barriers and ushering people out.

“Sorry, this exhibit is closing, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“This exhibit is now closed. Please use the nearest exit.”

“This exhibit is closed. We are closed for the evening. Please exit through the rear.”

“Thank you. Right this way.”

“Good night.”

At the entrance to the Renaissance wing Hannibal is prevented from entering by one of the Horse docents.

“I’m sorry Sir, this exhibit is now closed.”

Hannibal puts down his briefcase to pull back the sleeve of his jacket and check his watch, he frowns minutely,

“It seems a little early. It’s only a quarter to five.”

“Sorry Sir. Cleaning.”

Hannibal cranes past him into the room and can see that it is almost empty of people, he turns and leaves, not without some considerable reluctance. As he’s walking away he sees a familiar face,

“Brian. Hello. I’ve been evicted.”

Brian frowns,

“What do you mean Dr Lecter?”

Hannibal tips his head back towards the Wing,

“The Renaissance Gallery. Closed. For cleaning.”

Brian frowns some more, and leans past Hannibal to see,

“Cleaning?”

Hannibal shrugs and nods,

“At this very moment, apparently.”

Brian stills and then turns to a colleague,

“Mason, Molson? Want to lend me a hand here for a minute?”

Mason follows Brian, Hannibal steps aside and heads to an adjacent bench where he sits, curiosity for what is happening overtaking him.

Brian crosses over the hastily erected rope barrier in the door-way and approaches the Horse guy,

“Excuse me? What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Horse guy looks at him,

“What?”

Brian is about to repeat himself when the other man says,

“Upstairs sent us down to clean this exhibit. They’ve got some VIPs coming through.”

Brian frowns yet again,

“I oversee this section and I didn’t hear about it.”

The other man shrugs,

“Call upstairs if you like.”

Brian pauses, looks between the two men, looks around, from above he becomes faintly aware of the sound of rotor blades,

“No, it’s ok. You’re all right. They’ve been having people down here all week.”

Brian doesn’t move for a moment and then he suddenly extends his baton and raises it to strike the Horse man. Horse man doesn’t wait around and runs for it.

“Stop him! Watch it now! Dr Lecter watch out!”

Hannibal casually sticks out his foot and the Horse man goes sprawling. Mason and another docent are on him in a thrice, the other man grabbed by Brian and Molson. Then the alarm goes off. Brian looks around wildly,

“What the ..?”

Overhead they can all hear the sound of a helicopter coming in close to the building.

Docents from all over the floor start running in to the wing,

“Everyone out. Ok don’t panic.”

“Out. No need to panic. Out we go. Keep moving in a calm manner. That’s great.”

Hannibal stands, he watches as everyone starts to panic and head for the exit, and then the heavy steel shutters start to descend at the doorways. He pauses for a moment, makes sure no one is paying him attention and then slides under the nearest door and into the Renaissance room.

Once inside he can still hear the crowds leaving the Gallery and the voices of docents and curators urging people on. Hannibal retrieves his briefcase from under the bench where he sat just that morning and opens it flat. He grabs the Botticelli from the wall, snaps it out of its frame and folds it into the case. He snaps the case shut and is out and under the shutter, and into the departing throng.

The whole thing takes less than a minute.

On the roof, security rush to the guy scrabbling at the skylight above the Renaissance gallery, as they do so the helicopter swerves away back into the sky and off.

...................................................................

As he leaves the Gallery Hannibal smiles at some of the people he recognises, and there are plenty of them. Outside he hails a cab and smiles as he gives his home address.

“Sixty-eighth and Lexington.”

Once inside the building his valet opens the inside door to his apartment,

“Good evening Sir.”

“Good evening Paul. Will you put this in the study for me?”

He hands over his briefcase and smiles, Paul takes it from him with the smallest of bows,

“I set out a bottle of wine in the withdrawing room.”

Hannibal smiles,

“Thank you.”

He drabbles his hand through the mail left out for him on a side table, and laughs as he holds up an envelope,

“It’s just possible I might have won a cruise.”

His valet smiles.

A few minutes later Hannibal heads into the study, glass of wine in hand. He stops for a moment in front of a Magritte on the wall, he sips from his glass, puts his head to one side, it is a painting of which he is very fond. And of which there are multiple versions. A bowler hatted man, with an apple in front of his face, obscuring it from the viewer. Hannibal smiles.

He steps over to his desk and presses a button. The Magritte slides upwards. Behind is a recessed area. Hannibal smiles as he opens the briefcase Paul left on his desk for him. Inside is the lovely Botticelli painting. He takes it out carefully and then shifts over to the wall safe. With La Primavera carefully stowed and displayed inside he walks back to an armchair and sits down. He drinks from his wine. He enjoys the picture. And sighs. It is a deep and richly satisfied sound, redolent of the pleasure of something only you can see, something secret, something possessed, something known.

.................................................................................

Beverly Katz from the Manhattan PD walks across the entrance hall of the Gallery, towards the man just coming through the front doors,

“Hey Jack!”

She holds out a hand to Jack Crawford, he shakes it and smiles,

“Bev. How’s it going? They find the chopper?”

“Oh yeah. Sure. Abandoned in Queens.”

“We know where it was stolen?”

“Someplace out in the Hamptons maybe. We’re checking it out.”

He nods and Bev directs him over to an anxious looking man beside the front desks.

“Jack, this is Mr Komeda. Mr Komeda is the Director of the museum, gallery, this place. Mr Komeda? This is Agent Jack Crawford, he’s from the Art Branch of the FBI.”

Jack Crawford holds out his hand to the worried man,

“Sorry to be here Sir.”

He turns back to Bev,

“Who are the guys?”

She snorts, with a hand on his arm she pulls him along a corridor,

“Four, all foreign, maybe Eastern European. No prints on record. Probably illegalls.”

Jack sighs and nods,

“Yeah? Check with Interpol. Russian embassy might help, or Ukrainian. Whoever. “

Bev smiles a little,

“Anticipated that. It’s in the works. You’ll like this.”

She stops, puts her hand on his arm again,

“Point of entry? Hollow statue delivered this morning. They brought it in through their own security. It was a horse.”

She waits for the mic drop to hit, Jack rolls his eyes and she narrows her eyes in a grin when he says,

“Fucking Trojan Horse?”

“Etruscan. But yeah. Someone’s got a real sense of humour. And we got three digits off the licence plate of the delivery truck.”

“Their place been hit before?”

Bev shakes her head,

“Nope, you better believe it, this one popped their cherry. Through here.”

The two police head into the Renaissance Gallery, Bev looks around, sees all the amazing art, still on the walls.

“Just one painting.”

Jack nods and makes a face,

“An important one. Truly irreplaceable. So, the skylight was rigged to blow?”

Bev nods,

“Yeah. And there were cargo nets spread out ready to use. And they were wearing rappelling harnesses underneath their clothes.”

Jack looks around again,

“Take me through it. They kill the air? Make the place uncomfortable, drive out the tourists, right? 

“Sure Jack. Then they lower the shutters so nobody can disturb them. Then they take down the paintings into the cargo nets. Pull the paintings from the frames, ditch the frames. Figure they’re going to fly outta here like some kind of Peter Pan thing. Some of the crew make it, some of them don’t.”

“Amateur night. Right?”

He turns and looks at the shutter,

“What’s that?”

Bev looks at the briefcase he’s pointing towards.

“That? It was wedged under the shutter, kept it from closing all the way. Not exactly Samsonite.”

Jack half smiles,

“Really?”

“Yeah. Titanium. The engineer said it’d have to be able to take 15-20 tons of pressure to be able to take the weight bearing down.”

They both turn around as they hear footsteps coming towards them,

“Seems to me like you’ve got a few holes in your theory.”

Jack Crawford glares at the new arrival, but the guy ignores the look Jack is levelling at him and carries on,

“They shut off the air, to drive out the tourists, but they drive them out anyway? They close the shutters to keep everybody out, and then they block one open? They get ready to load maybe a 1000 pounds in weight in paintings and maybe, what 800 pounds of men in a, wait, what was the chopper?”

Bev checks her note book,

“Sikorsky S-76.”

“Ok. So. 1800 pounds in a chopper with a 600 pound useful pay load? Uh huh. Figure you’re going to wrap this up by morning do you Lieutenant.”

Bev grins,

“I’m the Lieu.”

Jack narrows his eyes at the guy,

“I’m Jack Crawford FBI. Art Squad. And I’m a little fuzzy about who you are.”

“Me? Oh. I’m Will Graham. Zurich underwriters.”

Jack looks at him, this curly haired guy, glasses wearing, slightly nerdy looking, but with something about him, maybe the smile, or the eyes, but something,

“You’re insurance?”

Will looks round the room from where the three of them are stood at the entrance to the Renaissance Gallery.

“Yup. There are a couple of Swiss gentlemen who’d rather not write a cheque for a few hundred million.”

Jack sighs,

“Shit. So, I’m stuck with you on my back?”

Will smiles,

“Oh come on Agent Crawford. Who knows. You don't have to be especiallly sociable. You might even enjoy it.”

He winks, Bev grins and Jack sighs the sigh of someone who wishes he were anywhere else. Right now. 

 

.............................................................................  
.................................................................................

**Author's Note:**

> ..........................................  
> ..........................................
> 
> There are two versions of the Thomas Crown Affair. This story riffs off the 1999 version. I've lifted and then mucked around with lots of the dialogue, the deeper into the story we go the more I've mucked around with it. Except Bedelia. She's very like the original! Which kinda makes me wonder about Bryan....
> 
> Some of you know I'm an archaeologist, last year I did a post-grad degree in Art Crime and Antiquities Theft. Who knew it'd come in useful so soon! I even wrote a journal paper on the representation of art crime in Hollywood since WW2. Lucky me!


End file.
